The Morning After
by Crinklybrownleaves
Summary: What if Jean got a bit carried away on Lucien's whisky? The idea came from the scene in S4E7 when she's drinking his whisky while waiting for him to come home. This story is definitely T, I'm not convinced about writing M-ness for such a conservative pair as these two! So far, 4 series and only one decent kiss!
1. Chapter 1

**As always, these are not my characters.**

 **If you have left me a review recently and not had a reply, it's probably because reviews don't seem to be posting here reliably at the moment. However, I've now changed my settings so I will get any reviews in future via email, so do please let me know what you think of this story.**

 **And a a message for seven dragons: I had hoped the robe might look better on Jean, but I'm not convinced!**

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Lucien woke with the dry mouth of a hangover, a numb left arm, and a vague feeling of despair. All of these were his own fault, and a direct result of throwing caution to the wind the previous evening.

Since Jean had kissed him properly for the first time on the driveway, just two weeks ago, he had been aware they were playing with fire, living together while trying to negotiate what that meant now they were engaged; but after all they had been through he hadn't much cared about the consequences. But now he was probably going to pay the price, and he didn't yet know how high that price that might be.

In the meantime, he attempted to enjoy the moment, to make the most of the fact that Jean was lying with her head on his shoulder, in his bed, wearing nothing at all. And last night she had let him in, not just to her body, but to her mind. Under better circumstances this would have made him very happy indeed.

On the day that Mei Lin left, Jean had agreed to marry him, at whatever point in the future that became possible. He had only just started to look into getting a divorce, so who knew whether it would take months, or even years? And the one thing he thought he had known for certain was that Jean would not be his mistress, and there would be no going to bed together until they were married.

Yet here they were, and there was no way to change it now.

The previous evening had been much like every other evening since their (still unofficial) engagement. They had eaten dinner together, then sat on the couch together, just talking, reading, and listening to the gramophone. There had been some kissing and cuddling, but all fairly restrained until Jean joined him in drinking his whisky.

Although she had drunk far less of it than he had, he probably should have remembered that he was far more used to it than she was. She was bound to think he took advantage of her, or that's what he thought, anyway. He groaned inwardly.

In fact, he remembered what had happened quite clearly, and it was Jean who had taken him by the hand and led him to bed. He had been very willing, of course. He suspected she might think he should have said no. After all, he knew perfectly well that she had wanted to wait until they were married, and he had been considerably more sober than she was. What a mess.

He couldn't in all honestly say he regretted it though. He loved Jean, and if anything he loved her more now than he had yesterday, if that were possible. And he had no belief in the God who said what they had done was wrong. But Jean did.

He wiggled his fingers a little, trying to get some blood circulating in his arm again. He pulled Jean a little closer to him, pressing a kiss to her temple and praying to the God he didn't believe in that she would forgive him. He watched her sleeping, feeling such tenderness towards her that he could sense a tear forming at the edge of his vision.

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Jean awoke to a rather different feeling of tenderness, along with an incipient headache and a sinking feeling in her stomach. She turned her head to see if Lucien was awake, and caught a glimpse of fear in his eyes.

For a moment she could not think what he might be afraid of, then she realised it was probably fear of her reaction. She did her best to smile at him, rather ruefully perhaps, but she tried. And then she felt a wave of love for him, for this man whom she had loved for so long, even when she had tried not to. So she kissed his cheek and gave him a more reassuring smile.

She remembered enough about the previous evening to know she had taken the lead, and however she might feel about it now, she couldn't blame him. And she didn't want to blame him anyway. She hadn't drunk so much that she didn't know where this had been heading.

And although she now rather wished they had waited, it had been a really lovely experience, the first time in fifteen years or more that she had slept with anyone, and it had turned out to be pretty special.

"I'm sorry," he said. She raised her eyebrows at him. "Alright, not very sorry. But perhaps I should have tried harder to stop."

She shook her head. "No...it was my choice."

"So what do we do now?" He hoped she wasn't going to suggest moving out, or something equally horrible.

"I think I should give up whisky, for a start," she replied with a small smile, "and you should get on with that divorce, so we don't have to wait years to repeat last night."

With that, she borrowed his dressing gown from the hook on the door, put it on, and collected her clothes from the floor, then headed to the bathroom.

Lucien closed his eyes in relief, and allowed himself a moment to dwell on the many pleasures of loving Jean. He may even have given thanks to a God he still didn't believe in, but who seemed to be on his side anyway.

And then he got up and went to breakfast, as if this was any other day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews and comments. There were some I couldn't reply to because the reviewer didn't log in, but thank you to those people too, I do appreciate the time you take to encourage me and leave reviews.**

 **Some people wanted a second chapter. Your wish is my command, though this chapter has far more angst than the last one, so you may not like it! In this chapter the roles are rather reversed. Lucien is calm, Jean is not. Enjoy!**

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Lucien spent much of the day at the police station, catching up on paperwork from the most recent case. He was aware that he was not giving the work his full attention, but he found his mind kept pleasantly drifting back to the previous evening. Now he knew what he was missing, and he couldn't stop thinking about her.

He was relieved that Jean had not been angry with him, although he didn't deceive himself into thinking she had changed her mind on the matter completely. She had made that clear to him; he made a mental note to find a suitable lawyer and get on with the divorce.

But he arrived home in an optimistic mood, hung his hat and jacket in the hall, and strode into the kitchen.

He immediately saw that there was a problem; unfortunately he had not the smallest idea what it was. Jean looked tense and brittle. She shrugged off his hand on her shoulder and avoided meeting his eye. However, she looked worried and miserable rather than cross.

He opened his mouth to speak but the words died on his lips as Charlie walked in. Whatever they needed to talk about would have to wait now.

Jean dished up the food with efficiency but none of her usual cheerfulness. Both Charlie and Lucien eyed her warily across the table, and exchanged glances with each other, but it was obvious that they were both in the dark as to what was going on.

Charlie ate at top speed, eager to be gone from this situation, which he (correctly) surmised had nothing to do with him. Lucien ate in silence. Jean pushed the food around her plate, eating very little, and spoke only when necessary.

Once Charlie had fled to his room, Blake turned to Jean and looked at her long and hard, finally asking simply, "What's wrong, Jean?" She shook her head first, then made a strange sound as she tried not to cry.

Lucien reached for her hand across the table and held it. Eventually she asked, in a rather quiet voice, "I don't suppose, in the heat of the moment, you considered any...precautions?"

It took a few moments for him to realise what she meant.

His stricken look answered the question for her, and for some time they stared at each other, unable to say anything. Falling back on his medical skills, eventually Lucien managed to say something vaguely hopeful.

"Well, it's not very likely, is it? I mean, in view of your age..." Realising this verged on saying Jean was old, he trailed off nervously.

"But it's not impossible, is it? It's not a risk we should have taken. And it didn't even occur to me till this afternoon, and now I can't think about anything else." She sat with her head in her hands, elbows on the table, looking a picture of dejection.

"I don't think we should worry too much, though." Lucien replied, trying to sound reassuring, and failing.

"Lucien, how can I stop worrying? We're both grandparents, I'm forty six, we're not married, you're married to someone else, and we live together. I can hardly imagine the gossip a baby would cause. In fact worse than gossip, it would be a scandal."

For one awful moment Lucien wanted to laugh. She was right, the circumstances could hardly be worse. But instead he went and put his arms round her, crouching beside the kitchen chair she was sitting on. "Come on," he said. "It's not likely to happen, but if it does, well, we've faced worse. And we can't do anything to change it now. You don't know, it might even be a good thing."

Jean laughed at that, but without humour. "Maybe if we were ten years younger, and all the other circumstances were different too, then just maybe, it would be a good thing."

Lucien led her by the hand into the sitting room and they sat together on the couch. He put his arm around her shoulders and held her to his side. After a minute or two she started to cry, and he let her, not interrupting or trying to talk her out of it, just offering his handkerchief.

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For the next two weeks, life in the Blake household seemed to stand still. Charlie had no idea what the problem was, but he knew better than to ask. Now, instead of just Jean looking tense, both Mrs Beazley and the doctor seemed on edge.

To start with, he thought they must have rowed, but he soon realised it was rather the opposite. They seemed bonded together in some difficulty that only they knew about. Whenever he saw them together it seemed they were holding on to each other, but in a mood of desperation, rather than passion.

He kept out of the way and pretended not to notice Jean's tears as she washed up, or Lucien staring thoughtfully into the middle distance over the breakfast table.

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One evening Lucien arrived home to find Jean, most unusually, waiting for him on the porch. She was sitting in the wicker chair as he drove up, but she walked out to meet him as he got out of the car.

He could tell by her smile what she was going to say, but he let her say it anyway. "We've been lucky. Scandal has been avoided, we're just back to the usual gossip about us living together." Her smile lit up her whole face and he realised again just how worried she had been.

He kissed her and then lingered over the embrace that went with it. "That's good news," he said, and kissed her again.

In a tiny corner of his brain, he acknowledged a moment of disappointment, of regret that they had not met earlier, that their circumstances had not been more straightforward, but he didn't say that out loud. This was a moment for being thankful for what they had, not regretting what they could not have.

"So," he said at last, "I've found a lawyer to sort out the divorce for us, and he thinks it will take about a year. How are we going to keep you off the whisky for that long?"

And they laughed together as they went into the house arm in arm.

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 **I've no idea how old Jean is supposed to be in the series. Nadine Garner is 45, and this story is set in the near future, so I've made her 46. Old enough to have 2 grown up sons, not too old for this story to be realistic.**

 **My grandmother had her last child (my mother) at the age of 46, after a gap of 17 years from her previous children. So actually it's only too possible. Just saying.**


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